Heare shepheards oft (thereby great wisdome growes),
With good advice a sober answere make:
Be not remoov'd with every winde that blowes,
(That course doo onely sinfull sinners take):
Thy talke will shew thy fame or els thy shame;
(A pratling tongue doth often purchase blame.)
Obtaine a faithfull frend that will not faile thee,
Think on thy mother's paine in her child-bearing;
Make no debate, least quickly thou bewaile thee,
Visit the sicke with comfortable chearing:
Pittie the prisner, helpe the fatherlesse,
Revenge the widdowes wrongs in her distresse.
Thinke on thy grave, remember still thy end,
Let not thy winding-sheete be staind with guilt;
Trust not a fained reconciled frend,
More than an open foe (that blood hath spilt):
(Who tutcheth pitch, with pitch shalbe defiled),
Be not with wanton companie beguiled.
Take not a flattring woman to thy wife,
A shameles creature, full of wanton words,
(Whose bad, thy good, whose lust will end thy life,
Cutting thy hart with sharpe two edged knife):
Cast not thy minde on her whose lookes allure,
But she that shines in truth and vertue pure.
Praise not thyselfe, let other men commend thee;
Beare not a flattring tongue to glaver anie;
Let parents due correction not offend thee;
Rob not thy neighbor, seeke the love of manie;
Hate not to heare good counsell given thee,
Lay not thy money unto usurie.
Restraine thy steps from too much libertie,
Fulfill not th' envious mans malitious minde;
Embrace thy wife, live not in lecherie;
Content thyselfe with what fates have assignde:
Be rul'd by reason, warning dangers save;
True age is reverend worship to thy grave.
Be patient in extreame adversitie,
(Mans chiefest credit growes by dooing well).
Be not high-minded in prosperitie;
Falshood abhorre, no lying fable tell.
Give not thyselfe to sloth, (the sinke of shame,
The moath of time, the enemie to fame).
This leare I learned of a bel-dame Trot,
(When I was yong and wylde as now thou art),
But her good counsell I regarded not,
I markt it with my eares, not with my hart.
But now I finde it too-too true (my sonne),
When my age-withered spring is almost done.
Behold my gray head, full of silver haires,
My wrinckled skin, deepe furrowes in my face,
Cares bring old age, old age increaseth cares;
My time is come, and I have run my race:
Winter hath snow'd upon my hoarie head,
And with my winter all my joyes are dead.
And thou love-hating boy, (whom once I loved),
Farewell, a thousand-thousand times farewell;
My teares the marble-stones to ruth have moved;
My sad complaints the babling ecchoes tell:
And yet thou wouldst take no compassion on mee,
Scorning that crosse which love hath laid upon mee.